


The one time Clint and Natasha had shit to avenge but decided to fuck it anyway

by wildechilde17



Series: The business trilogy [20]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Ronin - Freeform, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 16:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14622341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildechilde17/pseuds/wildechilde17
Summary: Fuck it. Fuck it allDon't read if you haven't seen infinity wars or read the spoilers.Press play on this whilst reading for bonus featurehttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdwnGG29Upw





	The one time Clint and Natasha had shit to avenge but decided to fuck it anyway

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck it. Fuck it all
> 
> Don't read if you haven't seen infinity wars or read the spoilers. 
> 
> Press play on this whilst reading for bonus feature  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdwnGG29Upw

In 1775 as Catherine the Great sat on the Imperial Throne of Russia, an American attorney stood in a church in Richmond, Virginia and declared “Give me liberty or give me death.” The oblique acceptance of death rather than choosing to survive to fight the next battle, for there is always another battle, is not Natasha’s default. That Natasha follows the traces of him here, should seem profound. It is in fact nothing but exhausting.

South of Hull Street near the Jeff Davis Parkway there are abandoned factories, bricks and the ghosts of industrial accidents waiting for the gentrification that never came.  In one of these buildings, on an upper floor that must have once housed an overseer’s office she finds the remains of a camp. It only differs from itinerant homelessness in the serial killer-esque map and names mood board constructed of local black markets, gangs, sex slavery and the building factions in the south east that are fast marking themselves as wannabe warlords. It is lacking only red string.

She pulls her jacket tighter around the light dress she is wearing. The fall winds are picking up and blowing through the shell of this building.  She can imagine that it is not the most comfortable place to sleep.  She knows they have slept in worse.  She pushes blonde strands of hair back behind her ears. 

And then the shadows behind her move.

She widens her stance before she turns.  She stares at the blades edge; it glints maybe half an inch from her throat.  When she looks back up, his blue eyes are just as dashed with grey patina. 

“I wasn’t certain,” she says. 

“You’re always certain.”  His head is covered by a dark hooded sweat shirt, his jeans just as dark and heavy with soil and dust. 

“I only pretend to know everything.”

The sword, a katana if she is any judge and she is, turns in his hand but doesn’t move from her throat. “Your hair is different.” 

She tilts her head slightly mindful of the sharp blade, “Is that really what you want to say?”

“Today,” he answers flatly, “Yes.”

 “Hawk…”

“…That’s not me,” he interrupts.  His face, even in shadow, is more a mask than his face.

“It is.”

“It was. Then the world changed.”

“It did. So you became…”

“Huh.”  The sound he makes is a little like the dry chuckles she remembers of him. “Makes it sound like there was choice involved.  You didn’t vanish.”

“No.”

“I thought you…” He shakes his head; the first real movement he has made since he cornered her.  Without turning he draws the sword back and slides it into its sheath on his back in much the same way he would stash his arrows.  “You didn’t.”

“You didn’t.” She moves forward.

“Might as well had.”

“Clint.”

“Funny,” he says, his voice is numb and lifeless, “Doesn’t feel like my name anymore. Even in your mouth. Everyone who knew that name is gone now.”

What he is wearing is not black, she notices, dark but not quite black, better to deepen the shadows rather than to be a shadow.  He pushes his sleeves up despite the chill. His wrist is a swirl of green and black ink wrapped anaconda like and crawling beneath the sleeve up his arm.

“No.”

“I thought you’d ash’d out too.”

“I looked for you, I came for you as soon as I…”

“You looked where you left me?  Where I’d made a deal because you told me to? Figured I’d be there even with the end of the world going on.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I won’t lie. I looked for you there first. Where I had put you for safe keeping.”

“And when you didn’t find me?”

“I looked harder,” she says tersely.  She narrows her eyes.

“Didn’t consider that maybe I was ash too?”

“Considered,” she says, neatly ignoring her memories of her team, her friends vanishing into nothingness. She does not allow her mind to picture Steve Rogers in the space that had been James Buchanan Barnes. She swallows against the idea of an archer made of ash. “Decided against it.”

He nods, once, hard and sharp.  He steps back.  Clint pushes the hood from his head. His hair is longer, shaved on both sides, severe. 

“You know what happens when half the world vanishes?” He smiles.  It isn’t his smile anymore.  In some ways it reminds her of the sick, pale, too tight smile of Thor’s brother.  She half expects him to lean in and say, ‘I like this.’  “Not even in the rest of the world, right here at,” he laughs then, a flat hard HA sound that echoes in the open spaces, “home? We thought the Sokovia Accords were bad.” He steps forward then, “Anybody who saw that shitty “Thief in the night” thing is convinced the Rapture came and this is hell on earth.” He is moving closer and closer with each word, “And they are fuckin’ making it happen.  Self forfillin’ prophecy, angels of our better natures up and fled time, everyone pointing fingers at someone as the antichrist and what’s left of our government going martial law to assert some control.”

He has alcohol on his breath and something else on his skin, something metallic and salty. 

“The cults of Thanos and the…” She shakes her own head, “I’ve been here too, Clint.”

“The cults and the communes, yeah, them too,” he says dismissively, “But I’m an assassin, a solider…”

If she was not Natasha Romanoff she would say he is now close enough to be menacing.

“A master less Samurai?” she asks.

His eyes flash as his chin lifts upwards. “I’ve been working,” he says, hard and cold.  And then his hands shoot out and wraps themselves into the neck of her dress. “Protecting those I can.” The used fabric tears in his fists.  He does not grab at her but the shock of his cold hands near her neck and the weight of him forces her back against the wall. “What have you been doing?”

She does not go for her weapons.  She braces herself, planting her boots as firmly as she can.  She maintains eye contact. “Take your hands off me, Clint Barton. I will not ask again.”

“Jesus!” he says looking at his own hands and the torn red fabric as though they were not the results of his own actions.  He drops them to his side. “I guess… I thought maybe…”  he says as she pulls the pieces of fabric back towards each other. “I wasn’t sure you were real.”

His brow furrows. He stands there suspended in the moment.

She grabs him as he starts to crumble, pulls him into her until he is balancing against her. It’s whiskey on his breath, the cheap kind.  He turns his head into her neck. “How did you find me?” he asks, his voice smaller than before.

“People make patterns.” She doesn’t say that she learned how to see those patterns from him. “You changed weapons, names,” She feels is intake of breath as he lifts his head, “but I know you.”

“Even now?” he asks.

She slides her hand up the side of his cheek. “Even now,” she whispers and then starts as she realizes it is more hope than truth.  Natasha blinks. 

She kisses him in the hope he didn’t catch the hesitation. He kisses back and she might even believe that it was possible to taste hope in whiskey mash.

His movements feel familiar but the desperation does not.  His hands go first to her breasts as he kisses with surety and strength. She puts her hands into his hair trying to pull him into her before the foreignness and the harshness of the cut forces her to shift her hands down on to his hips. He grinds into her.

She missed him. She missed him every moment they were apart and the truth of it hits her like an oncoming bullet when his large fingers are undoing the remaining button of the dress. 

He pulls the sheathed throwing knife at her thigh with the hand he slides down her body.  His mouth is on her neck.  If he tore himself away, for even a second, he might see that it is not her usual knife, these weren’t designed for her, they are mass produced little things with a target imprinted in them. She shed her own knives and the ones that marked her history with SHIELD when she left him with a deal and her belief it would keep him safe.  

He uses the knife to ruin her bra. He splits it open, gliding the knife up between her breasts without hesitation or hint of danger to the skin beneath. His eyes are sharply on his target. She does not think about the permanence of his trick. 

He peels the cups from her flesh, sighing softly as he drops the knife. Then his fingers are on her nipples and his callouses are familiar and her body eases into the sensation.

She pushes her thigh between his legs and then slides her hand over the increasingly tumescent bulge. His breath is a grunt.  He has stopped kissing.  He is watching her as she unzips his fly and seeks out his penis. His hands stop their task when her fingers come in contact with his head, it feels slick to the touch. 

When she wraps her hand around him and draws him upwards she can feel his body follow. His expression has not changed.  His face, both concentration and resignation.

He leaves her breasts, his right hand he wraps around her waist, fingers spread wide like he means to squeeze the breath from her.  His left he slides down; he stills between her strokes but eventually he forces her thighs further apart.  Now her thighs are sticky with her juices. With little warning he curls two fingers up into her.  She inhales audibly. 

He matches her stroke for stroke.  When she shudders, he lifts his head from her shoulder and with a slight twist of his mouth drags his thumb between her folds.  It does not search, it finds its target and moves firmly across it with his fingers’ pull and push. 

Her breath quickens.  Without the heat they are generating she would feel the cold air but now it does nothing but heighten the sensation of his breath on her skin. She floats, like driftwood not forgetting the ocean but bearing it. 

This room is open and full of dust.  His hand inside her makes obscenely wet sounds and now their voices catch on each intake of breath, each exhale and each exertion. 

Her fingers travel over the head of his penis and then draw downwards again now they are only exertion and the building tension begins to overwhelm them both.  Her toes push down inside the old brown cowboy boots she is wearing.

The muscles of his abdomen contract. His mouth splits open, he turns his head into her shoulder as a wet white jet of fluid hits her thigh in three consecutive spurts.  His chest heaves but his fingers do not leave her, only taking on a more frantic quality as he forces her into her own release.

She jolts and panting buries her head in his chest. He holds her up as he slides his fingers out of her. In his arms she feels easy again. His body, larger than she is, covers her up. It will not last but leaning on each other she lets the desire for this to be all they do for weeks fill her up.

“Everyone’s gone, Natasha,” he murmurs into her hair. He doesn’t call her Tasha, even now with her all over his fingers and a rope of white fluid on her upper thigh. It shouldn’t hurt, the absence of a nickname.  “Everyone is gone and I,” he swallows hard, “I didn’t stop it.”

“I know, ястреб.” She turns into his neck when he shudders.

He pulls away too soon. His hands hovering over the surface of her skin like he isn’t allowed to touch her. He steps back, tucking himself back into his jeans and biting down on his bottom lip. He examines the floor. 

“We will fix it,” she says firmly. 

He looks up, “Yeah, who is we?”

“Those of us who are left.”  

He searches her face.  She doesn’t shift, she does not want to answer the question that he is not asking.

“Seems to be a lot more of the bad got left,” he says with a nod. It’s clipped. She knows it of old and knows what he is saying. I will not ask you to confirm my fears, Natasha, not now. Even now he trusts that if she does not want to say he does not need to know. “I’ve had work.”

She swallows on that.  This work he speaks of has the hallmarks of her days as a contract killer, this work looks ruthless and unflinching. The shapes it drew outlined a shadow who did not care about his own death. “Your pattern was bloodier than…”

“Than?” he asks; his eyes are red rimmed. When she does not answer he finishes, “Than a guy that didn’t watch children vanish in their mother’s arms, one person outta whole families left standing, watch friends just…”

“Than you.”

“Me.” The word is flat. He sounds like he does not want there to be a him.  

Despite the tone of that word she wants to say that she needs that Clint Barton back at her side, watching her back and inside her so she can feel full and real for one more moment. It is selfishness.

She can use him still. She can make that use a good one. One day she might even forgive herself for pulling him back in. She'll head to the old Percy Priest SHIELD facility. She should be able to get them both to the meet from there. 

“It is easy to forget who we are with no one to remind you.” She was taught to belong anywhere by first making certain she could never belong anywhere. She has watched everybody around her look like they have been placed in a foreign country with every feature of culture shock and every quality of people who no longer feel the reality of consequence.

Every deeply buried instinct she had left told her to find him first and every practicality said she owed Steve Rogers and Wakanda more than her own selfish desires. “It took me too long to come find you.  I am sorry.”

As she rebuttons the ruined dress and looks for her shucked jacket, he says “I don’t belong in this world.”

The nearest window is grimly splatted with grey bird shit but she can see her own reflection and the way she freezes. She clenches her fists at her side. She is irritated that she freezes.

“We don’t belong in this world,” she says to the familiar and unfamiliar blonde woman in the barely reflective surface. She turns, lifting her chin and meeting his eyes, “So we bring back the old one.” 

 


End file.
